


He Keeps Me on My Toes

by beltainefaerie



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Erotic Photography, First Time, Genderfluid Character, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other, Past Exhibitionism, Rimming, Shapeshifting, Smut and Feels, Wings, french postcards, passing reference to autofellatio, posing with a snake, risque social clubs, silly footnotes, yes he loves you too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: After a 6000 year courtship, suddenly things are moving quite fast, but this time neither angel not demon has any objections at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Aziraphale's line to Heaven regarding Crowley, I wanted a raunchy sex scene that involved Aziraphale being fucked over a table and barely balancing on tiptoes. Then there were all these pesky feelings. 
> 
> Thanks to janto321 and meansgirlwrites for the beta and encouragement!

Crowley and Aziraphale stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. The meal had been delicious, he was sure, but for the life of him Aziraphale could not recall what they had eaten, which might be a first. He barely knew where they’d gone. 

In fact, the only thing he could say with complete certainty was that he’d spent most of the evening looking into Crowley’s eyes. Like turmeric, like the reflective stripes in tiger’s eye, like the glow of the candle in front of them during the meal, and just as illuminating. Currywarm and bright _like the stars he’d once formed_. Aziraphale felt like he had lost centuries looking into those fascinating, wide yellow eyes. If one could total all the little stolen moments over their millennia together, he probably had,* and he wasn’t quite ready to part ways. “Would you like to come back to the bookshop? I’ve a Macallan 1988 I’m told is very good.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t lying. Of course not. Angels don’t, you know, ( _except possibly about their own hearts_ ). Still, that was quite an understatement for a whisky that retailed for half the average man’s wages for the year. He’d looked it up after a friend had sent it over, in thanks for finding a particularly rare book. Aziraphale already had one copy and in a moment of generosity, had actually been willing to sell the duplicate. Anyway, there was whisky now and the demon might be persuaded to have a glass. Or several. Aziraphale held his breath in anticipation, trying not to look over eager. _please say yes_

Crowley’s eyes widened fractionally before he adopted his usual casual attitude. “Sure, angel. If you’d like.” 

He’d offered his arm like a promenade at the turn of the century. Of course he did, _the tempter_. Did he know what it was like? How often Aziraphale wanted to reach for him only to stop himself with shouldn’ts and cant’s and a stern self-admonishing _it can’t ever be like that!_

Aziraphale smoothed his pale tartan waistcoat, straightened the lapels of his cream-just-turned-to-butter colored linen jacket, and practically skipped forward to slip his arm through Crowley’s. The contact, even clothed, the heat of him seeping through the light layers which separated them, made Aziraphale’s heart flutter. 

It seemed but the blink of an eye, despite the hours they’d been in one another’s company tonight, and it was growing late. They had lounged in the back of the bookshop, each indulging in one another’s presence and their alcohol of choice, which this evening was the aforementioned whisky for Crowley and a sweet, well-aged sherry for Aziraphale. As they’d been musing on the past, the future, and the joyfully thwarted apocalypse, Crowley had noticed a book lying on a side table. 

Peering at the nondescript cover curiously, he’d flipped it open it, then shut it again just as quickly. “Why angel, I had no idea your books went so far abroad as all this!” 

Surely Crowley had seen his original uncensored volume of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and moreover, his collections of Alan Ginsberg’s poetry. Though Crowley surely hadn’t read them, he certainly knew of such infamously banned texts. What could he have found that surprised him so? Aziraphale laughed, “Oh, you know, I’ve always had rather eclectic tastes.”

With a sideways glance, Crowley took the book, which was more postcard album than publication, onto his lap. 

“What do you have there?” Aziraphale said, his voice rising almost shrilly in his alarm, for though he asked, he had a sobering, sinking in the pit of his stomach, increasingly positive that he knew exactly what volume had been left on that table an age ago.

Crowley tilted it so he could see, confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions.

 _Oh, not the postcards!_

Crowley flipped through, cocking his head squinting at one image. “Well, that’s one way to toot your own horn.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Oh, you found my… um, human anatomy collection. I didn’t know they could bend that way, but apparently a few can, and one of the members of the Hellfire Club actually demonstrated one night, which was... rather educational.” Aziraphale sounded only slightly flustered, though despite his steady voice, and his gaze kept darting away. When he’d found a postcard of the same act, amusingly titled _Il Serpente_ he’d been quick to add it to his collection and it was this image that Crowley was scrutinizing now. 

“Human anatomy, sure,” Crowley said with a knowing nod, then his jaw dropped. “Wait— you were actually at a Hellfire club event?” Crowley asked, so startled by the revelation that he nearly dropped the book.

Aziraphale sat up a little straighter. “Several times, my dear. You do know that was just their name, right? It didn’t prevent my attendance. Poor dears just wanted to shock people a bit, but God has nothing against acts of Love. The misuse of them, certainly, but not when no harm is done.** Even with a bit of an audience,” he added with a smile which might even be described as flirtatious. He was talking a good talk. Blasé even, but the angel didn’t know quite what to do. If Crowley kept going through those he’d find a few pictures Aziraphale would very much prefer he not see. The Hellfire club wasn’t the only hedonistic club he’d had occasion to perform miracles for, or draw people away from the temptations of, depending on the needs of The Plan. At the turn of the century he had belonged to a secret society in France which had been similar in theme, though by then photography had been invented*** and, well, the evidence lay now in Crowley’s lap. Various pictures he ought not possess. But most of all...

_The temptation._

_Oh dear._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, willing himself to sober up. He needed his wits about him, as he wasn’t at all sure how Crowley would take it. He might see it as somehow mocking, which couldn’t be further from the truth. When they announced it was Aziraphale’s turn to take center stage in their festivities, he couldn’t think of anything that he’d wanted to enact more than to be wrapped in the serpent's embrace. Not too daring all things considered, and as he couldn’t have Crowley, he _could_ have this. Just a moment, an illicit photograph. He needed to be accepted among this group to complete his mission,**** and for that he needed to participate.

So Aziraphale had posed and, as it turned out, had been rather popular. He knew the other members had found the biblical imagery delightfully perverse in the context, but Aziraphale knew there was no harm in it. In fact, the conversations it sparked had actually brought several back to his side of things, an unexpected boon for which he’d received due praise. In any event, it came to pass that there were a number of postcards of himself, which he had decidedly _not_ filed with his report. In one he stood, naked as a jay bird in spring and wrapped solely in an incredibly large python. In another he lay in the shade of an apple tree with the snake curled artfully over him. He remembered the way the creature had felt around him, the undulations of powerful muscle that did nothing whatsoever to dissuade him from wondering what Crowley would feel like around him in any form.

It inspired the couple he’d been sent for, who chose a leaf-clad romp in the walled gardens of the estate where the group would all meet for their debauchery. Said debauchery honestly consisted primarily of burgundy or brandy, epicurean delights, and occasional artistic orgies. For their postcard, Aziraphale, clad in soft flowing robes so reminiscent of Eden, stood over them during their coupling and sheltered them with his actual wings, which the tipsy partygoers thought were a particularly clever bit of fancy dress. There was a bright glow over the whole tableau, which Aziraphale had been quite surprised was captured on film. He was concerned his wings might not even show up, to be perfectly honest. 

Months later, after he had faded away from the club, Aziraphale had been most surprised to open an unmarked parcel left on his doorstep to a note of thanks and this album of all of postcards the photographer had taken over the years. Men sharing a pomegranate, juice dripping down their naked forms, being licked off. A pair of gentleman engaged in a vigorous soixante-neuf. Two ladies twined together in the garden on a checked picnic blanket, luncheon basket opened but forgotten, their laughter positively radiating from the picture. Tableaus that recalled ancient pottery and pre Raphaelite paintings alike, like Bacchus reclining on a bench eating grapes straight from the bunch whilst in the background a lithe man playing panpipes dances with nymphs in diaphanous gowns. Aziraphale had been there for that one. It had been a fun afternoon. Many more revelers had been there than were captured in this moment. In fact it seemed like the whole of their club had turned out. Aziraphale had snuck away when they’d actually devolved into a true bacchanal, but not before filling the whole garden with the glow of Love. A little extra blessing never hurt the proceedings. 

Aziraphale had added more pictures over the years. Some romantic, a few more as lewd as the originals. No more of himself, for there was never any need. He’d made sure the book grew with the collection, never running out of slots for the new additions. Safe and sound. A secret indulgence, looked at with longing, desire, and fond reminiscence. Secret, that was, until now.

Crowley sat and turned pages, taking in the collection. Each moment he draw nearer to the pages Aziraphale feared. 

They weren’t even to _his_ pictures yet and Aziraphale already felt flayed, torn open, laid bare. He closed his eyes and swallowed. 

At last the angel heard Crowley draw a sharp breath and rose, stepping away on the pretense of refilling his glass. He drained it too quickly just for something to do with his nervous energy. Then several things happened at once. The old grandfather clock at the back of the shop struck midnight, the bottles and glasses vanished completely, and Crowley was no longer sitting in his chair. Crowley crowded him against the table and Aziraphale’s breath caught as Crowley swept the table clean, pens and papers clattering to the floor though the books, including the dangerous postcards, miraculously relocated to a nearby shelf.

* The eyes have been poetically called the ‘windows of the soul’ and this is not far from the truth. Much is revealed both in the eyes themselves with dilation of pupils and also in the microexpressions formed in the lines around the eyes. Numerous human scientists who like to analyse such things have determined that prolonged eye contact increases the chemicals that make up what people experience as love. A sign of love, trust, and a very good way to release the bonding hormone oxytocin, humans have been gazing at one another since Eden and were unlikely to stop anytime soon. Zick Rubin in the 1970s studied that couples in love spend 75% of their conversations making direct eye contact, compared to 30-60% during conversations with others. Aziraphale spent 85% of his conversations with Crowley looking into his eyes. As for Aziraphale’s guess of centuries, this was not even close to correct. In fact, when taken all together, counting backwards from the moment he had this thought, Aziraphale had spent exactly one millennia, six centuries, two decades, five years, three days, six hours, fifteen minutes, and 19 seconds gazing into Crowley’s eyes and also showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. 

** On this Aziraphale was quite right, no matter what the humans had put in their various and sundry translations of The Good Book over time like a long, religious game of telephone. 

*** Technically photography had been invented in 1717 but the initial fumbling attempts did not capture a permanent image. By the 1820s Nicéphore Niépce had managed to create a fixed image, but to imagine his methods put to use for erotic photography are amusing at best, considering the exposure range of anywhere from several hours to days to develop a picture. Many thanks could be given to William Henry Fox Talbot, whose invention of the photoglyphic engraving process in the 1840s and perfecting of the calotype technique in the following decade was largely responsible for the ease of photography today. Both Heaven and Hell claim responsibility, as he gave humans the ability to snap treasured baby photos, therapeutic photos of silly animals, but also for strangers to send one another unsolicited pictures of their genitalia.

**** He’d been sent to bless the conception of Michel Pissaro, who was to be a renowned artist. Although Aziraphale often did not know the precise reasons for his missions, simply trusting the Ineffable Plan, he was given to understand that Michel’s work would be so beautiful, that despite its non-religious and often unconventional themes, just the sight of his paintings would confirm the existence of God for many who saw them, provided that his parents, Evelyn and Jean-Claude, met here.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed at the commotion, but he smiled at the books. That was quite thoughtful of the demon. Before he could puzzle out what was going on, Aziraphale found himself spun and pushed down, bent over the table. The sudden movement could have been frightening, nerves frayed as they were, but he didn’t feel the slightest wave of anger radiating from Crowley, and what he did feel… well, Aziraphale let out a breathy “Oh” that was equal parts surprise and desire. He felt a stir in that part of his human form which usually served no more purpose than to fill out his suit properly and not alarm his tailor by its absence.

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hands with his own, lacing their fingers together and pinning him to the table. “Those pictures, angel. You and that common snake…”

“They needed me to pose. And, well, that made me think of you, but I couldn’t very well ask you to…”

“You couldn’t?”

“You would have...” Aziraphale pressed his hips back as he felt Crowley’s eager hardness pushing between his cheeks through the linen of his summer suit. Aziraphale wanted to say that he’d been afraid. Rather equally of being rejected and of what they might get up to if he wasn’t. Despite being around a great deal of debauchery, he hadn’t ever put his human form to that particular use and hadn’t really fancied doing so with his supposed adversary, in front of an audience no less. Here though, was quite another story. 

His clothing could have been waved away, but Crowley was doing this the old fashioned way, whispering sweetly in his ear, “You only had to ask,” as he worked the button of Aziraphale’s trousers through the buttonhole, lowered the zip, pushed them down. He licked the shell of Aziraphale’s ear and the moist heat kept him in the moment, making him well aware that this wasn’t some dream. Not that angels generally dreamt about demons. Not that he ever had. _Really_. 

His trousers soon lay in a hopelessly crumpled tangle around his ankles, and as fussy as he usually was about such things, Aziraphale found that he couldn’t possibly care, especially when the demon kissed his way down his back and used his mouth in a way that only humans could have invented. Neither side could possibly have claim over such a unique combination of lust and divine pleasure. Aziraphale shivered and endeavored to spread his legs as far as the trousers would allow, the tip of Crowley’s tongue laving a part of his anatomy he could honestly say he did not recall putting in the effort to create, but if it felt like this, he was all for it.

Only when Aziraphale was an absolute panting mess, his hole loosened and spit-slick, did Crowley see fit to rise. He pressed up against Aziraphale. “You want this, angel? Tell me you want this.”

“I want you, Crowley. Yes, I want this,” Aziraphale moaned, adding in a low whisper, “However you’ll have me. I’m yours.”

Crowley adjusted their angle. Aziraphale was forced to balance on his tiptoes. It should have been uncomfortable with the hard table against his belly, his calves near cramping from the position. And yet, nothing had ever felt so good. All tingling heat and desire that was overwhelming. All consuming.

“Angel, my angel,” Crowley whispered, thrusting into him. 

Aziraphale could feel everything. The press of Crowley against him, the stretch and burn of being filled, which was rapidly settling into a deep pleasure. The shirttails brushing against his lower back where his own shirt had been rucked up. The moist heat of Crowley’s breath against his ear. The woodgrain of the table beneath his cheek and fingertips. His own longing ache for release, building with every touch, every moment. 

“Don’t stop, please Crowley. Don’t stop!” Aziraphale cried. He was pinned, helpless to resist, but oh, he didn’t want to. He welcomed it, drew Crowley in.

How could a hard, fast shag against a bookshop table feel tender? How could a demon make him feel so loved?

Crowley shifted his hips and Aziraphale’s thoughts skittered to a halt. He stopped trying to hold his own weight, sagging against the table and let himself be rocked by Crowley’s rhythm, pleasure sparking through him like fireworks. He shook with the force of it, coming completely undone. He tried to hold out, to make this last but Crowley angled just so and Aziraphale surrendered completely, giving himself over to Crowey, to this moment. With a rush of unparallelled pleasure Aziraphale came, crying out in ecstacy and wonder. There was a pop from the air distortion and the shredding of fabric as his wings unfurled. “Oh! Oh dear. I’m sorry, I just...” Aziraphale stammered a barely coherent apology. 

Crowley chuckled darkly and didn’t even lose his rhythm, despite narrowly avoiding a face full of feathers. “Everything’s fine, love. More than fine.” He picked up the pace, until he arched back, his motion stilled, and Aziraphale’s name on his lips as he came was as close to a prayer as he had spoken in millennia. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed and basked in the feel of it all, positively radiating Love.

Crowley curled over his back pushing away the ruined fabric and peppering kisses over the surprisingly sensitive spots where each of his wings sprouted. It tickled, making him wriggle and, that, well that made him wish they could do this all over again. 

“That was...” Crowley began, placing a kiss in the center of Aziraphale’s back, between his wings as he pulled out and waved them both clean. 

“Amazing,” Aziraphale sighed. He hid his wings and turned to meet Crowley’s beautiful golden eyes. “You know, I’ve just put a bed upstairs. I know we don’t need sleep, but it would be good for a lie in, if you,” Aziraphale tried not to fidget, took a deep breath of air he shouldn’t quite need and said, “if you wouldn’t mind staying.”

Crowley smiled. “Angel, are you asking me for a cuddle?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, I-“

Crowley kissed him soundly. “Yes, angel. I’d love to stay.” He headed for the stairs, but turned back with a wink. “Besides, if you fancy another go, I’ve actually never done it in a bed.”

Aziraphale stood for a few moments in shock. _Crowley said yes. He was staying. Here. With him. And wait, what was that about the bed?_ He shook his head to clear his thoughts and hurried after.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genderfluid is literal in this chapter. Ah, the miracle of shapeshifting. Your genderqueer author had fun with that and I hope you do too.

Crowley entered the stuffy, disused bedroom on the top floor of the bookshop. It was stifling. He crossed to the window, and cracked it open. Rain pattered lightly outside in a summer storm, bringing the earthy scent of petrichor, but there was no chill. In fact the air was pleasantly warm. He stood there for a moment, breathing in the scent of rain and remembering the first rain in the garden when Aziraphale had sheltered him. _I think I’ve loved him since that very moment._ He’d tried to deny it, to fight it, but he was done. There was no need to run from it anymore. He smiled at the memory of Aziraphale panting beneath him, loving and wanting and so very beautiful. It was time for him to surrender just the same. 

Crowley snapped his fingers and vanished what clothing hadn’t already been discarded and the bits of anatomy he didn’t want for this go around. Now he lay on his back without a stitch, spread out like a feast and taking up nearly the whole bed. 

When Aziraphale entered the room he startled at the sight before him, then he licked his lips and eyed Crowley like he had never seen anything more delectable. 

Crowley smiled. “See anything you like, angel?”

“You, dear. Always you. I think, if it is quite alright, I’d like to taste you, dear.”

 _I think I’ve wanted that for centuries_ Crowley did not quite manage to say, though he did spread his legs wider and that was invitation enough.

Aziraphale crossed to the bed and lay between Crowley’s thighs, admiring the new shape of his lover. He ran a tentative finger through the folds of silken flesh, then bowed his head. He licked and sucked, exploring Crowley thoroughly.

Crowley wanted to sing, to cry, to beg. Form didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, but this perfect mouth and _more, harder, take me, consume me, my angel_. 

Crowley thought these things, but the words didn’t quite make it out, for this mouth was too busy with keening cries and soft moans and little panting breaths. Such thoughts needed no voice, for Aziraphale understood all the same and seemed to redouble his efforts to bring Crowley to ecstacy. 

Crowley arched up into that hot wet suction and Aziraphale gave a gentle nip that made Crowley moan with a roll of hips. It was so good, all of it. Every blessed little thing Aziraphale did, alternating between licking the soft wet folds of Crowley’s vulva, worshipfully devouring every inch of vulnerable, exposed skin, and sucking Crowley’s clit, punctuated with artful flicks of his tongue. 

How many times had Crowley watched that tongue lick a spoon clean or the delicate froth of whipped cream from his lips? Crowley had known it would feel like this and still not known at all. It was so much, as though they might combust from the sheer intensity of pleasure already, but Aziraphale, dear blessed creature that he was, chose that moment to fill up Crowley’s dripping quim with two fingers, sliding through the wet slickness and in, in, in, and crooking them just so. 

“There. Yes, right there!” Crowley shouted. An aching, shattering tension of almost, almost, almost. Crowley needed more, wanted everything. Bucking up off the bed, there was a tingling warmth, a _shift_ and then there was quite a bit more to be enveloped in that hot mouth. 

Aziraphale’s pleased groan was muffled, but he was clearly not put off by the changes in their proceedings. 

“Yesss, angel that’s it. Suck me.” 

Aziraphale took it all, sucking furiously at this transformed body, relaxing his throat to accommodate Crowley’s stiff cock as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of his love’s still gloriously slick slit. Crowley had never been more grateful that they didn’t really need to breathe. He thrust gently in and out of Aziraphale’s eager mouth and held there deepdeepdeep while Aziraphale swallowed, working his throat around the length. Crowley came clamping down hard on the fingers still undulating inside, the rolling waves of pleasuring rippling through them, crashing over. Full to bursting, pleasure overflowing, and spilling, spilling down Aziraphale’s throat. Fingers tightening in soft white curls, tethering to this moment this maddening, perfect being. Crowley spoke in tones that should have been forgotten in the Fall, words no demon is supposed to remember. Their closest translation would have to be “I am love, you are love, we are love.” 

Aziraphale’s suckling mouth slowed, softened like the cock within it, easing his pressure as his lover became oversensitive. But his fingers did not slow, the twist and thrust and curl of them intensifying and Crowley was collapsing in, curling tight like a dying star and then, and then supernova! Brighter than the sun, blotting out everything as Crowley came and came and came again.

Crowley collapsed, surprised, boneless, and sated in a way that had been lost since… since before Eden. Crowley was too pleased to wonder more than idly if that had been all right, but even if it had been more of a concern, Aziraphale’s glow was answer enough.

Aziraphale sat up licking his fingers and looking like the cat that got the canary, or in this case, the cream. Satisfied. The twinkle in his eyes said he was not the least bit sorry and he’d do everything again if given half a chance. He licked his lips slowly, stretched, then lay down beside Crowley, and set to kissing quite thoroughly. “You are quite the feast, love,” he said.

Crowley smiled, slow and warm, holding Aziraphale close. “Only for you, angel. Only ever for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic. Kudos and Comments feed my muse, so if you enjoyed it, please let me know.


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